Her Eyes, Her Face
by Daelyn Paolini
Summary: He hadn't seen her since that glorious garden. He ached to see her again, to feel hope and whole again. He craved her bright, shining eyes, and her flawless heart-shaped face. *Based off Poe's poem To Helen*


_Her Eyes, Her Face_

* * *

As long ago it had been since he last saw her in that magical garden, he never forgot her beautiful, heart-shaped face. The contours of that beautiful countenance were etched into his brain, haunting his dreams night after night. The tragedy that was Virginia—no, _his life_—had finally been replaced. Replaced, that is, with the absence of the one thing he wanted most as of late. He desired that heart-shaped face, the one he just knew would fit perfectly in the palms of his hands, to be his. If he closed his eyes and strained just hard enough, he could hear her shining tresses (yes, shining and gleaming and lustrous at midnight! But, in the end, wasn't it a magical garden?) toss in the kind breeze. In these moments, he would stop and indulge himself this one happiness.

Since that warm July night, he had taken up sketching. This was the only way he was able to complete dissatisfactory depictions of that lovely lady. Yes, sometimes his hand fell back to the familiar strokes of Virginia's dear cheeks, her curly orange hair—but no, it was _her_ who filled most of the pages. It was _her_ who gave him some sick semblance of hope, because he had forgotten how to correctly do so long ago. But no, all negatives aside, he had so completely familiarized himself with that perfect lady's face that even if he looked away for a moment (possibly at some disturbance in his mind, or some gentle rapping at his chamber door), there would be no mistake made on this perfect lady's face…

Not to say he was a proper artist. No, far from it. He was ashamed of the recreations he had made of the lovely woman. But how else could he remember her? For she had gone long ago, but never from his memory. No, he could never forget her. Not even if he was far beyond the chasm between life and death, he would never forget her. His poems, also, did her no justice. She was that perfect.

One dreary evening while walking the streets of Baltimore, a darkened sketch of her face (his favorite sketch he always kept close) clasped tightly in his shaking hand, he found himself stumbling down some alley. As familiar as he normal was with this city that bore his origins, he was disoriented with the effects of alcohol. Having taken up drinking as a means to forgetful ends, he was walking with unsure steps and an unknown destination. Unable to move farther, he collapsed onto a pile of rubbish near some dirty metal fence. He looked up at it, watching the rusted bars from upside down, something he off-handedly wished he had thought to do before, and sighed wearily. He was exhausted. Of all of it.

He glanced over his shoulder into the garden. And behold! He saw that lovely, perfect lady once more! How could this be? This perfect timing, it must have been Fate. But no matter, he felt no need for semantics. Only the need to watch _her_. This time she was not clad in white, but in a sad midnight blue gown. What had happened since he last saw her, all those centuries ago? Why had her sorrow grown? It pained him, and he attempted to lift himself and console her, but the alcohol got the better of him, and he sank down through the rubbish.

He closed his eyes just after he caught the glint of some beautiful star.

Waking up was like pushing himself out of fierce ocean waves. It was painful, for he felt he was being drowned or strangled, and because he was faced with some insurmountable power. He groaned, straining, and forced his lids to uncover dark and hopeless eyes. Awake and delirious, he looked to his left and found a wooden wall. To his right, a room. A room decorated with a simple vanity, armoire, night stand, and the bed he was laying on. The curtains were satin and lavender in color. He reached up to touch one, and found it cooled the tips of his newly burning fingers. He picked himself up from his confounded heap and moved to examine his image in the large mirror. He smelled worse than he looked, his tailcoat torn and frayed a bit at the ends, and the white of his button up blemished with unknown substances from the previous night. His hair was disheveled, and he combed through it, somehow clear of any trash, for a moment before recalling the sight he had seen just before losing himself to nothingness- and then (oh, in that beautiful moment!), he completely understood what had happened.

Had _she_ really recovered his body?

He burst through the bedroom door, ran in a flurry of sour body odor and rumpled clothes, and searched through the parlor and kitchen for sight of the beautiful woman. He had half a mind to shout for her, if only he knew her name. Checking twice in the parlor, he fell onto the comfortable sofa, resigned to wait for her to come down the stairs. Tired as he was, he didn't know how to fall asleep anymore. He only knew how to wait, and wait impatiently. Nearly an hour later, to his dejected glee, he heard a door upstairs open, a small silence, and then soft footfalls coming down the stairs. Self-conscious, he flew out of the chair and began pressing down his clothes, combing through his hair, and looking around nervously.

And then there she was.

"You're awake! Do you feel well, sir?" Her voice! Oh, her voice! Silken honey, autumn breeze, fresh lemonade, homemade pie, his dear mother's embrace—he thought he would drop to his knees and beg to hear more. Speak, he wanted to cry, just let me hear you again!

"Why, I've never felt better. Thank you, Madame." He gave her a small, hopeful smile. But that was more than anyone had seen since Virginia had passed.

"Would you like some tea?" She pointed to the kitchen, suggesting she could prepare some for him.

"Yes, any kind you like," he acquiesced, wanting nothing more than to keep her company as long as he could. "And I shall help." He gave himself another quick once over, then strode across the parlor.

She looked at him, her heart-shaped face accentuated by the long waves of dark hair that cascaded down her shoulders. With large bright eyes, thick lashes, and pink lips, she smiled invitingly at him. Heart swelling and eyes beaming at the impossible prospect before him, he stopped in his tracks and simply watched her gorgeous eyes. Those vibrant eyes, the ones that danced across that garden that one July midnight…

* * *

Now I know _To Helen_ (Poe's poem this story is based on) was about Virginia, but for the sake of this story, just pretend it wasn't. I wanted to give Poe a happy ending. He's my favorite poet, I love him and wish he didn't have to suffer as much as he did, so I decided to write this for him. May he rest in peace and enjoy this bit of fiction I've written in his memory.

Hope you enjoyed, please review.

Peace.


End file.
